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The Persistence Of Memory

My mother's on her fifth martini, the other four strewn across the bar. She's laughing, talking about playing the piano drunk. And she doesn't recognize me.

She smiles, raising her glass in a toast. We'll fill in the missing fifteen years. She'll express admiration and pity for what she missed. For leaving. She'll want to meet again.

"You look like some ordinary fellow. A lawyer. That's a pity."

"I'm a teacher," I say.

"That's great, young man," she says. "But what does that leave for yourself?"

I thought mothers had a way of knowing, an instinct.

She doesn't goddamn recognize me.

Story by:

Mir-Yashar Seyedbagheri

12 October 2014